


as plain as the nose on your face

by thesoundofyourheartinyourhead



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (sorry), Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), First Fic!, M/M, Minor Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Soulmate AU, Trans Martin Blackwood, Trans Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), as in very minor, au where when you care about a person, canon-typical Elias Bouchard, kind of, their name appears on your body
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:00:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25960972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesoundofyourheartinyourhead/pseuds/thesoundofyourheartinyourhead
Summary: There are ways to interpret them, of course.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

In the quiet moments, when he has time to breathe, Martin likes to daydream, to people-watch, take note of their marks and divine them. He had read a book on it when he was a kid on a rare day off, the six months or so he couldn't get enough of fortune telling, tarot and palm reading and tea leaves, the like. The meaning of marks are a curious mix of the names and the person themselves- if a name curves over the back of your hand _they_ are foolish, but if it curves over the palm _you_ are hardworking. On the nape of your neck is lucky, but if it stretches around, the person in question is a bad influence. The tube is good for this little exercise- catching a glimpse of intriguing names in odd places, _Roman_ in cheerful orange on a buff guy’s chin (quick thinking), _Morag_ s in the shape of a bird on an old man’s hand (dreamy), a woman with a chain of violet _Jenny_ s curling twice over her throat, the colour matching the bruise on her cheek. Names in every colour, size, shape, language, font, pattern. It’s interesting. 

Martin’s names, as are common on his Dad’s side, tend to gather around his joints- dependable, sturdy, helpful, and he tries to be, at least. _MumDadMumDadMumDad_ are butter yellow in a coil around his left wrist, and when he is nine and alone, just _Mum_ , again and again as the years go by. (Mostly. Martin makes sure not to wear anything with short sleeves around his Mum again- 爸 has stuck around in a sickly green, stubborn on his shoulder, and he doesn’t want to upset her.) When Martin is in secondary school, names spring like weeds behind his knees- unrequited, but he doesn’t need the book to know that. They are mercifully less bright after a week or a month, but he remembers to wear longer skirts to cover them, regardless of how wrong it feels. 

Mum gets worse. It gets to a point where she can’t wash alone, because on good days she can lose her grip and fall and on bad days she can barely move. Martin understands, even as she spits her frustration at him, as she twists her words into barbs that sting all the soft parts of him. She does not exactly agree, in the end, but she does not protest anymore as Martin lifts her too-small body in his too-big hands. They are silent as Martin undresses her- her muscles are all limp but her jaw, grinding, simmering in the lukewarm water. It becomes a hated ritual for them, and Martin learns how to do it as quickly, with as little interaction as is possible when bathing someone else. He lingers only for a second when he shifts her to do her back. His name, and his father’s, are printed in peach where the lumbar vertebrae start- 

He shouldn’t have doubted her. _She’s your mum, for god's sake,_ he scolds himself, as he continues, but his inside churn with uncertain emotion, distant relief muddied unpleasantly with slick wrongness at the letters that only stood out on bloodless skin. Every day after, when he reaches her back, and the empty nights when absence claws at him, he keeps it in his mind. Because however faded it is, however small and hidden and _wrong_ it is, he knows it is there, and that knowing lights a candle of hope in him, and it keeps him warm. 

He has so little time to figure it out, but he does. Just little things- gleefully donating all his old dresses to Oxfam, learning how to lower his voice. He tries to cut his hair by himself and quickly learns that barbers exist for a reason. He carves out time for clinics and it’s all such a faff but it’s worth it (thank god for the NHS). He tries to explain it to Mum but he knows she doesn’t really understand. The name on her back is not magically disappear (obviously). She does not get any new ones. 

Which is fine! He doesn’t know yet either. Names cycle through his mind, often stopping, never settling. He writes _Tobie_ on his name tag for a bit. Patrick. James. Robin. He considers _Maverick_ for precisely three seconds. Elliot is almost right, after a poet and his grandfather, but it seems too- smooth in his mouth, somehow. Grand, like he drinks absinthe and gambles, artful cigarette smoke curling from his lips like a gun shot. That isn’t him. He is -hmm- childproof rounded edges, sandpapered down. He is not the sun, or sunlight, but- he goes to write this down- the warmth held by a cat’s fur as it lounges. 

He finds his name in his fifth baby naming website. That night, it is printed in turquoise on his solar plexus.

 _Martin K Blackwood._

The K is a nice touch, he thinks. 

(When he goes through his terrible, wonderful second puberty, Mum scowls. He was unusually tall before, but when the facial hair starts coming in that isn’t gross and patchy he almost looks like- 

“Go. Shave.” 

He does. She won’t look at him for two months.) 

He starts lying, eventually. Who was he kidding, anyway, that anyone worthwhile would want some drop out clumsy weirdo who’s also a fulltime carer? He did try though, really! He has probably worked in every supermarket chain in the Greater London area, as well as several teashops, two garden centres, a massage parlour, and a lovely little Polish restaurant that was definitely a mafia front, now that he thinks about it. Three jobs at once, sometimes! And it’s not like he's totally lying (at first) he’s just. Fudging, a little. He did start studying for GCSEs, he just didn’t... _complete_ them. He worked in a library once. He knows something about computers. He doesn’t expect anything out of it anyway, everyone’s so thorough now, but- 

Well, Martin gets an email. 

Dear Mr Blackwood, it reads. We are very impressed with your CV. Cool. We have an opening in our Research department. Very cool. Please come in for an interview on Saturday. 

Cool. 

Martin groans into a pillow. What was he qualified in, again? 

He doesn’t actually remember applying to the Magnus Institute. Two days before, he had been scrolling frantically through his CV and past emails to find out why exactly the ghostbusters were interested in him. Masters in parapsychology indeed. He’ll have to add a few years to match his oh-so-varied career. Christ. But an official institution has to pay at least marginally better than a chippy, so he digs out his suit and gets on the Tube to Chelsea. 

The man who interviews him _does_ look like an Elliot, but vaguely less _I go to wild gay parties and do cocaine to forget about my lost love, but like, in a fun way_ and _more I sip expensive whiskey on the rocks staring into the fireplace plotting our next attack on the Germans. I am still gay though_. He is almost right on the name, it turns out- Mr _Elias_ Bouchard, he says, as he goes to shake his hand. Martin meets his eyes properly and 

He 

Knows. 

He has to know. Talking to him with that detached friendliness, oh yes, he is just _perfectly_ civil, smiling amicably as Martin regurgitates the internet to him. Elias Bouchard seems to delight in the hardest questions for him to bullshit an answer to as Martin regrets being alive; but he smiles and answers, smiles and nods. Nods. Smiles. Nods. 

“Congratulations, Mr Blackwood,” Elias Bouchard says, when he finishes toying with him. His smile is bland. His teeth are sharp. “You have the job. I look forward to working with you; I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful fit.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Martin had been, in short, fucking terrified for- well, basically all of his employment at the Institute, but even more so the first six months. And it was such a shame, because the people there are so _nice_ and they seem to like him, but there is always that _fear_. Fear that he will be _found out_ , that he’ll be tossed on his ear without a reference, and he’ll have to uproot Mum _again_ and _move out_ \- 

“You alright there, Martin?” 

Sasha is nice. She, after giving him a heart attack two days into his New Job, is basically giving him a free degree in library science. She likes romcoms and cats and thinks it’s cool and not weird that he knows how to read marks (gather around her feet, persistent, small ones on the toes, stable). She’s also really good at warding off his Anxiety Spirals Of Doom. He couldn’t have survived four years without her. He’s still scared, a bit, feeling observed all-the- _fucking_ -time, but it a stable kind of fear, one he can mostly ignore. And it’s worth it, now. 

“We’re taking Tim out for drinks,” Sasha says, sliding into the chair beside him. Oh, another good thing! He has time to go out for drinks! Friends to drink with! Money to pay for said drinks! Sasha starts spinning on the chair as she talks. “I know you’re free, Martin, so don’t try to get out of it.” 

(Also, she’s been trying to set him up with every eligible bachelor in London, which is very gracious, but completely unnecessary. Sure, New Boy Tim is lovely. He’s great actually, handsome, smart, talking (read: flirting) about everything with everybody with total ease. He thought the divining thing was cool too, and had very eagerly started stripping, despite it being 11am _at work_ , which does not help his newfound crush at _all_. Tim’s marks are really interesting, actually. They start in faded red cursive at his navel, MumDad, then zigzag over his unfairly muscular torso. It looked like there were two marks under his pecs, but they had been slashed through with thick pale scars. Martin winces at this (bad luck bad luck bad luck) but Tim just laughs and scratches at one. 

“This one should say Danny,” he had said, pointing left. “It was my name first, but then my brother came out and started using it just to annoy me, so I started being Tim.” Tim grins, with his perfect teeth and perfect hair and skin and abs, and Martin smiles too. Tim is perfect. He is a crush, and this feeling will fade. He is safe. 

Okay, the crush is still a _little bit_ there, but he can manoeuvre around it for the sake of his own matchmaking. Sasha and Tim would be adorable together, and everyone knows it.) 

“Sure,” he says, and Sasha beams. 

Martin thinks he quite likes the archives. Sasha and Tim were transferred with him, and they’re always fun. His boss is... 

Well. 

Martin still has a little crush on Tim, but honestly, he thinks everyone who has spent more than an hour with Tim has a crush on him. That niggling infatuation, however, is totally eclipsed when he first (literally) bumps into Jon. Jon, who is rude and impatient, who looks like a librarian and a rogue archaeologist put through a blender, who has silver streaks and worry lines and glasses on a chain, is currently the unwilling captor of his heart. Naturally, the others are teasing him about it. 

“Seriously, Marty McFly?” Tim calls as he closes the door to Jon’s office, red faced and heart beating. “You’re gay? And for that?” 

“Shut up! He could hear you!” Jon’s office is soundproof, but he really doesn’t want to talk about this. 

“What is it that attracts you about him, Marto? That he has no idea how to talk to people without insulting them, or the fact he looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge?” Both, and he knows it. (He’s not even hot! Where’d his thing for fucking muscle heads go?!) 

“Shut up, Tim.” Martin’s hope that this conversation will end are crushed as Sasha continues. “I’m sure Martin’s only staring at Jon to _interpret his marks._ Go on, Marty-boy, tell all.” 

Martin glowers into his mug. “He’s _supposed_ to be highly empathic,” he mumbles, and Tim’s tea squirts out of his nose laughing. 

Jon’s marks, that he can see, are on his face, small and almost too dark to see on his brown skin. _Dadi_ is etched in navy at his temples, and _Georgie_ is olive on his left eyelid. The others, he learns, are obscured by the thick frames of his glasses. A month into his role in the archives, Jon takes of his specs to rub at the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes and in the shadow under them he can read _Admiral, Georgie, Elias, Tim, Sasha-_

_Martin._

Martin grins like an idiot for the next week. 

He isn’t expecting anything much when he goes to investigate the Vittery case, just confirmation of what they’d already guessed, and that was pretty much what he got. He goes back to work and files the necessary reports, and heads home. Or starts to. _Can’t have spent more than a half hour there,_ he thinks. Out loud he says, “Due diligence, Martin,” in a _very_ Jon like way. He slaps his hands over his mouth and looks around, but the universe has spared him this embarrassment, for once. He gets to Boothby Road and breaks in again (he does an awful lot of breaking and entering for what should basically be an office job). And- 

Oh. 

**Bad.**

Something’s wrong. It’s weirdly warm in here, dark and musty, and it smells weird, but it is a basement, so. Martin shines his torch around, the pale light bouncing silver off spiderwebs. There is a rustling, faint, but it is obvious in the silence. Against the will of his feet and his heart and his trembling instinct, Martin moves forward, shielded only by his faithless torchlight, so weak in this lingering dark. The noise has stopped. Just go, he thinks, _please just go,_ but that is when he finds Jane Prentiss. 

He runs, gasping, all the way to the Underground, and even in the fog of his terror he tries not to let it be too obvious that he is checking his seat, lest the over-timers travelling with him think he’s mad. By the time he gets to Stockwell, his heart is slowing down, his ribs hurt under his binder, and the adrenaline has given way to a deep tiredness and mild nausea. He goes home and collapses; doesn’t even undress. When he wakes up, it is still night, or at least at night, and there is knocking at the door. Martin sits up (ow fucking _ow_ , jesus, _that_ is why you never sleep in a binder) and flicks the light switch (that poor woman, what if she was just _hurt_ , she could have been _hurt_ and you _left her_ ). 

Which... does nothing. (Power cut? Fuck, did he pay rent?) The knocking continues (neighbour maybe? Power cut to the building- he's still got candles). Achingly, he limps to the door but 

(she is so awful- black, chipped teeth and filthy, matted hair,) 

what if 

(and she lets her coat drop to the floor and it barely crumples and) 

what if she's 

(grey skin, torn apart and blacked and rotting at the edges of) 

Martin looks down and _screams_ at the sight of the 

( _worms_ , just sieving through the meat of her every time she moves, silver against the oozing decay, against the floor, like that summer day he took out the rubbish bag and it split and there were maggots and flies and rotting fruit and Mum was yelling and he was crying and) 

Martin screams and screams and screams and he _acts_ , stamping, stuffing towels and socks into every crack of his flat, every leaking crease. He finds every planet ruining, lifesaving aerosol spray that could possibly suffocate a worm and arms himself. He slides down the wall crying and bangs his head against it, but he still hears her knock knock knocking and the wall stops being solid, starts being her chewed paper honeycomb skin. 

He shifts the sofa into a gunman’s position and tries to breathe. _You need to take off the binder, Martin_. Bizarrely, he thinks _, but she’ll know_. The thought is so mind-numbingly stupid that Martin starts laughing. _So?_ She’s knocking at the door trying to kill you, Martin. She’s not going to care. _Worms say trans rights!_

Laughing hysterically isn’t good, he's guessing, but it’s a hell of a lot better than sobbing. 

Martin laughs, for a long, long time. 

If, for some godforsaken reason, someone had asked him before all this what it would feel like to be trapped in his flat by an undead worm witch for two weeks, the first words that came to his mind would not have been ‘boring as shit’, but rather more ‘why are you asking me this’ and ‘is this another Buzzfeed quiz, Tim’. But, as he quickly finds, being trapped in his flat by an undead worm witch _is_ boring as shit. Not that it’s not terrifying- it's absolutely terrifying, and he is alone through it all, anchored in the confines of his refuge, without a phone to call for help, to even stay afloat. But eventually, the fear doesn’t- doesn't _go away_ , exactly, but he can tune it out enough for it to be a whining hum rather than a roar in his mind. But the listlessness is almost worse. He wipes up the worm slime, makes a list of his food supply (why does he have so many peaches? He doesn’t even like peaches), checks and re-checks his makeshift seals, tries to knit better ones. He almost feels guilty for not sleeping, because this is the most holiday he’s had in one stretch for thirteen years but he just can’t. 

He tries to write, a bit. Inevitably, his thoughts stray to the steady rap at his door. To the mounds of squirming flesh, moving in tandem for the sole purpose of infesting him. To the grey skin, markless but for her own putrid wounds. 

_Maybe those are her marks now_ , he thinks, and shivers. He decides to edit. 

Everyone looks alarmed when he stumbles into the archives, having run all the way there. 

“You... alright there, Martin?” Tim asks, cocking his head. It’s not like he hasn’t showered for two weeks, the pipes still worked, but he couldn’t use the washing machine- it was either wear a shirt he had worn for at least two days or the Hawaiian shirt and pyjamas at the back of his chest of drawers. That, as well as the general sleeplessness and the fact that he hasn’t left his flat in a fortnight, sweating like crazy to boot, Martin has an awful feeling he looks like a maniac on the worst vacation of his life. 

“I need to make a statement,” he breathes, and Jon lets him. 

Martin doesn’t know why he’s surprised that Jon has a bed in the archives, workaholic that he is. It’s a pretty lumpy futon, but Sasha gamely brings him the essentials from his flat (“Of course I will, Martin! Christ! And then we need to go shopping- god knows you need some fruit in you-") and Tim gets him enough pillows and quilts that it’s almost like having a proper mattress. 

“Okay,” Sasha says, as she dumps a metric ton of assorted junk food onto his nest of blankets. “We’re having a sleepover.” 

And they do. Tim sneaks in some prosecco with the lemonade and Vimto, and they drink it out of mugs. Jon wanders out around seven, apparently realising he has to use his own bed now. He declines the offer to stay and hang out, but he does linger as Tim recounts how he once tried to dye his brother’s hair blonde and ended up with leopard spots. As he takes his leave he is smiling slightly.

"What?" Martin asks flatly. 

Sasha and Tim are grinning at him, identical smug chesire-cat smiles. 

“You _like_ him!” Tim crows, with the precise tone, emphasis and pronunciation of David Tennant when his body is possessed by a sentient trampoline of skin. They all sit in silence for a moment. Martin snorts, and then they all fall about laughing. 

Martin smiles down at the scarlet **Jon** on his elbow. He does, doesn’t he? 

It’s a little easier after that, than if they hadn’t stuck around. He has a new phone now, so he listens to audiobooks to fall asleep. He is beginning to understand how Jon can basically live out of the Institute- he had been helpfully directed to the showers after he made his statement, and there are places to sleep and books to read, and there’s a fridge in the breakroom to keep his ready meals. He didn’t go out much before, but now he only really leaves the Institute for research, or groceries, or when Sasha and Tim drag him out for drinks or “-a home cooked meal, Marty-boy! How are you going to grow big and strong without some good food in you? You haven’t _lived_ until you’ve eaten my sweet risotto-”. 

Jon doesn’t really stop being cold to him, but he does usually remember to say goodnight to him when he leaves (late), and Martin can cope with that. Also, after a little prodding, he gets him plans for the building, and Martin prepares. CO2 canisters, bandages, knives, the lot. 

_Although_ , he thinks, _sitting up, knives wouldn’t be great if you don’t know quite where the worm is, you could do a lot of unnecessary damage. They move pretty slowly laterally. Something with a kind of twisty motion._

In the morning he goes out to invest in a few corkscrews. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning- intermittent descriptions of a dead body and mention of vomiting; if this bothers you, read from "Shut up, Martin." to "He stays at Tim's for a bit." Despite the warning, this is a bit of a breather chapter. Thank you for reading!

It is a little less than a month later that Sasha meets Michael. She certainly seems to be handling her experience better than he did, almost stoic after she makes her statement, but her hands are trembling as she sips her tea. 

“Are you sure you don’t want any of us to walk you home? Or you could stay the night, if you want, I can take the breakroom couch.” 

Sasha smiles brittlely. “Thanks, Martin, but I'll be okay. Don’t really have the people energy for another sleepover.” 

Martin nods, reminding himself that _she’s not rejecting you, she’s your friend who needs to be alone to be okay right now._ “Cool. Just- call us, though, alright? Any of us, we’ll come running.” 

She nods resolutely, and he thinks she’s going to leave, when she says, “Can I have a hug, though?” And who is he to refuse her that? She’s tall, almost six foot, but he’s taller, so she’s the perfect height to hide her face in his shoulder. Martin tries not to feel too relieved. Sasha breathes a shuddery breath. Tim walks in and wordlessly gives them both a squeeze. 

“Thanks, Martin.” She goes on tiptoes and kisses his cheek, and Tim bumps into him affectionately. And then they wander off together, shoulder to shoulder, and Martin is alone again. 

Martin is almost pleased when Prentiss invades the Institute. Well- not pleased, obviously, being afraid for his life _yet again_ , in the very place he used to escape from her- but just a little satisfied. He was prepared, competent for once, and Sasha and Jon are less mangled than they would have been without his supplies. They are alive because of him. Jon seems set, however on believing that this is a perfectly ordinary infestation of flesh-eating worms and Martin is a malingering idiot. 

Martin is getting a little tired of it. 

“Seriously?” 

“What?” 

“Why do you do that?” 

Jon has the gall to look indignant at this. “Do what?” 

Stupid Jon. Stupid Jon and his stupid, bleeding, cute, stupid face. God. “Push the sceptic thing so hard? I mean, it made sense at first, but now? After everything we’ve seen, after everything you’ve read! I hear you recording statements and y-you just dismiss them. You tear them to pieces like they’re wasting your time, but half of the “rational” explanations you give are actually more far-fetched than just accepting it was a, a ghost or something. I mean, for god’s sake John, we’re _literally_ hiding from some kind of worm… queen… thing, how, how could you possibly still not believe?” 

“Of _course_ , I believe.” Jon is frowning that nervous way he does when he is skittering at the edges of what he’d rather not touch. “Have you ever taken a look at the stuff we have in Artefact storage? That’s enough to convince anyone. But, but even before that… Why do you think I started working here? It’s not exactly glamorous. I have… I’ve always believed in the supernatural. Within reason. I mean. I still think most of the statements down here aren’t real. Of the hundreds I’ve recorded, we’ve had maybe… thirty, forty that are… that go on tape. Now, those, I believe, at least for the most part.” 

Martin wants to growl his frustrations at him for, like, a full minute, but he should probably save his breath. “Then _why_ do you-” 

“Because I’m _scared_ , Martin!” And Jon _looks_ scared, in a way that isn’t anxiety or discomfort or the face he made when he talked about the apple with teeth inside. “Because when I record these statements it feels… it feels like I’m being watched. I… I lose myself a bit. And then when I come back, it’s like… like if I admit there may be any truth to it, whatever’s watching will… _know_ somehow. The scepticism, feigning ignorance. It just felt safer.” 

Martin understands (he feels the same, sometimes), but he also still feels annoyed that he was treated like a liar for four months with proof of his experience if Jon has believed in the uncanny this whole time. “Well. It wasn’t.” 

“No. No, it wasn’t.” Jon puffs out his cheeks and he sees the edge of his name under his glasses. One of the lenses is cracked. “Still, it’s not my fault we’re going to be eaten by worms. Speaking of, can you see anything?” He does, actually. Prentiss appears to be... vomiting? On the statements. It bubbles slightly on the paper. Ew. 

“Why are you here Martin?” 

Weird question. “Well, Prentiss is out there, and you can’t run so-” 

“I mean at the Archive in general. Why haven’t you quit?” 

Martin feels like growling again. He looks at Jon very steadily. “Are you giving me my review _now_?” 

“No…” Even though he plainly is, a bit. Jon looks distinctly uncomfortable. “We’re clearly doing a whole- heart-to-heart... thing...” (he looks genuinely pained at this) “-and, truth be told, the question’s been bothering me. You’ve been living in the Archives for four months, constant threat of… _this_. Sleeping with a fire extinguisher and a corkscrew. Even _you_ must be aware that that’s not normal for an archiving job? Why are you still here?” 

_Why_ are _you here, Martin?_ His accidental mafia job was less dangerous than this. All he had to do there was make pierogi. “Don’t really know.” he muses. “I just am. It didn’t feel right to just leave. I’ve typed up a few resignation letters, but I just couldn’t bring myself to hand them in. I’m trapped here. It’s like I can’t… move on, and the more I struggle, the more I’m stuck.” 

Jon somehow looks even more nervous. “Martin…You’re not, uh…” He looks down, eyes firmly on one of the holes in his arm. “You didn’t _die_ here, did you?” 

“What? What? N-No… _what?!_ ” 

“No, I just- No, just the way you phrased that-” 

“Made you think I was a _ghost?_ ” 

“No… it’s-” 

“No, no… it’s just that- whatever web these statements have caught you in, well... I’m there too. We all are, I think.“ He sighs. They marinate in the silence. 

He snorts. “A _ghost?_ Really?” 

Jon now looks very tired, which settles their usual equilibrium. “ _Shut up_ , Martin.” 

According to a book Martin regretted skimming through almost immediately, there are five main stages of decomposition- the first starts only a couple of minutes after you die. The body cools and stiffens in rigor mortis. All the blood in your body obeys gravity and sinks without the heart to push it through your body. Then you bloat, swell up to twice your size. The so-called stench of death are gases leaking from your corpse, often rupturing the skin. The smell attracts flies. Those were the words, weren’t they? _Insect activity may be present._ Forensics examine what insects the body has in it, what eggs were laid in the dead flesh, so they can figure out when it died. 

There are no insects in Gertrude Robinson’s corpse. No worms either- they have been worryingly absent from the tunnels for a while. He retches, from shock and the smell. The air is cold, and clammy, thick with rotting, void of oxygen. He leans on the doorframe, heaving. Staring at the body slumped in the chair. 

“Jon?” He gasps, when he gets past vomiting and starts hyperventilating. “Tim?” 

No one answers him. You’re alone, Martin, says the cold, truthful voice in his head. 

“No! No, I’m not!” he bawls into the silent darkness. 

_Go. You need to go._

So he runs. 

“And then I found the trapdoor,” he says quietly. The heat of the tea through the cardboard is too much for his skin, but he just feels so cold. The policewoman is nodding understandingly, like running into year-old corpses is a daily inconvenience for her. 

“Do you think you could find this room again, if you went back in the tunnels?” she asks, not unkindly. Martin decides not to think about how he never wants to go back into that cramped, rambling nightmare of crawlspace, because Constable Khan has already talked him through one panic attack tonight and he doesn’t want to unload another on her, so he says, “Yeah, maybe. I’d have to do it backwards though, I'd probably get lost if I took my first route.” 

Constable Khan nods again and closes her notebook. She gets up to leave. 

“Wait,” Martin stands up too quickly and his head spins, “Are- do you know if my friends are okay? The two of them that were with me in the tunnels- did you find them- and Sasha-” 

Constable Khan raises one hand placatingly. “Your colleagues are fine- Mr Sims and Mr Stoker were recovered by Constable Hussain and medically examined. Mr Sims has been released from quarantine, I believe.” 

Martin sags with relief. “What about Elias? Elias Bouchard and Sasha James, are they alright?” 

“Mr Bouchard is the one who called us. Untouched. As for Ms James-” She nods at something behind him. Martin turns and promptly collides with Sasha, all five feet of her. 

“Martin!” She is a flurry of well-meaning intrusion, turning over his hands, pulling his face down, darting around him. Martin gets a headache just looking at her. “God, are you okay? I just- I yelled at Tim and hid in Storage and then Elias called the cops- I had no idea-” 

“I found the body,” Martin blurts. 

“What body?” 

“Gertrude.” Martin can feel tears welling up again. “She- in the tunnels, I found- she-” 

(was in advanced decay, _purification,_ the flesh literally melting off her bones-) 

“She was-” 

(shot, three times that he could see, the rags hanging off her torn around the wounds, bloody) 

“Oh, Martin,” Sasha breathes, and she pulls his head down again, pressing their foreheads together. It is such a comforting gesture, her marks reassuring around her hairline as it touches his, that he starts crying again. 

He stays at Tim’s, for a bit. He has a spare room, and food, and a cat who hones in on his bladder as soon as he sits down. Martin goes out to get pain medication and helps with the bandages on Tim’s back, and reminds him to elevate the wounds as often as possible. Tim actually laughs in his face when he tries to get ready for work on Monday. 

“No. Sit down and watch Stranger Things with me.” Tim flings Bastard into his general vicinity so he has to sit down, and she snuggles into his organs lovingly. 

“Tim- I need to-” 

“You need to rest. You are not going into work today, because a, we were all attacked by worms, b, you discovered an old woman’s corpse and c, the Institute is being fumigated. No one is doing any work.” 

“But-” It doesn’t feel right to sit still, after a decade of working six days a week more often than not, the first five years with three part-time jobs at once. It feels wrong not to work when there is work to be done, even if he feels sick when he thinks of dark corners and dusty filing cabinets. “I didn’t get hurt the way you guys did. I can work.” he says finally, letting Bastard knead his jumper. Martin gives her a scratch.

“Martin...” Tim is sighing, and Martin doesn’t want to look at him because he’ll be disappointed. “You don’t need to be useful all the time, you know? Christ, whether it’s capitalism bullshit or just who you are, or if you’re secretly as much of a workaholic as Jon, it’s okay to just chill out, even if you’re not hurt- and you are hurt, Martin, your brain’s as important as your bod. You’re worth being taken care of, just by- existing, you know?” There is a long silence, and Tim cracks a smile and Martin is safe again. “Besides, I got an email from Elias about three weeks paid leave and I don’t think Bastard’s going to move for another hour. So- relax.” He puffs out his cheeks as he turns on the Netflix. “So anyway, I’ve watched the first episode, but I don’t mind rewatching it. It just came out-” 

They watch two episodes and go for a walk around the neighbourhood. Sasha’s coming over in the afternoon, to help him look for a new flat. 

He goes back to work with Sasha after the three weeks. Tim is resting for another at home. And, Martin thinks, as Jon practically crawls into the Archives, Jon should be too. 

“No.” 

Jon scowls. “What?” 

_“No._ Go home, Jon.” 

Jon does not look okay. He isn’t even fully healed yet, there is a patch on his cheek and a bandage wrapping his hand. Martin could guess he didn’t get _great_ sleep before, but he looks exhausted now; he appears to be standing at a forty-five-degree angle. This does precisely nothing to soften the glare he is shooting at him. Martin really wants to cave, but he also wants his boss alive, so he stands firm. “Jon. Please. Just until Monday?” 

Jon tries to push past him, but brushes past a desk and faints. Martin isn’t sure if he could hurt him by catching him, so he grabs the back of his coat: ergo, Jon is suspended, arms hanging straight out like a stick insect, blinking blearily. Martin has no idea how to rectify this. 

Sasha mercifully walks in at this point, sees Jon, and says, “Calling a taxi.” 

“Yes.” Jon says through gritted teeth. “Fine.” 

(Jordan Kennedy definitely thinks he’s weird for asking after Jane Prentiss’s ashes. 

“I mean, alright?” he says, when Martin explains. “I could put some in a... jar, or something. It smells pretty weird, so keep the lid on. Don’t mention it to anyone else though, it’s technically a biohazard.” 

Martin considers prettying it up a little, but realises it seems like the world’s most morbid Christmas present. Jon will only throw ribbons away, anyway.

He does make a label for it, though. 

“Here,” he blurts out, just barely remembering not to toss it, as it is made of glass and contains medical waste. “Proof.” 

“Uh, thank? You?” Jon says, but Martin is already leaving the room as fast as he can without running. 

Jon keeps it on his desk, after that. Pride of place, like his spiderweb lighter.) 

Things go... kind of? Back to normal. He and Sasha and Tim do research, file statements, generally fuck around. But Jon? 

Jon isn’t really coping. 

He’s doing a lot of normal things. Working too much, glaring at him. He’s been bringing his little tape recorder everywhere, even though he used to hate it. 

Leave it alone, Martin, a part of him sighs. This is how he’s working through it. 

The rest of him gives that part the bird. He knows he’s got a caretaking thing, but it’s so easy to worry about them. About Jon. 

He isn’t drinking the tea. 

And then his- 

His wounds are scars now. Not like, just, _really bad acne_ , but like someone’s gouged out little bits of him. His new glasses magnify his bloodshot eyes. His face, skinny before, is almost pinched and hollow. He’s just so _small_. His whole body looks like it hurts to move. 

(But his marks are the worst. 

Martin walked in on him the other day in the bathroom, applying too-light foundation on them, and he just _stared._

The new ones are thin and silvery, in jagged, spidery script. They are symmetrical, as ever. _Timothy Stoker_ and _Sasha James_ , two on each side, underline his too-sharp cheekbones. _Elias Bouchard_ and _Gertrude Robinson_ helter-skelter over his jutting knuckles. 

The half-a-beard he has managed to grow does not quite hide the _Martin K Blackwood_ hunching over the curve of his jaw. 

Jon is frozen, eyes locked with his reflection. 

He’s terrified. 

_Of me?_ The idea would be almost laughable if the proof of it wasn’t literally written on his face. 

_Jon, are you scared of me?_

“Right. I’ll- uh- I'll just-” 

“Martin-” 

He leaves. 

A week later Martin wanders into his office and sees photos of Tim’s flat.) 

“Sit down.” 

Jon’s tone brokers no argument. His mouth is set in a hard line, tired eyes flinty and narrow. 

“What is–?” 

_“Sit._ Why did you lie to me about Trevor?” 

What? 

“What?” 

“Why did you tell me he was dead?” 

_Who the fuck is Trevor???_ He tries to smile like he knows what the fuck he’s talking about. “Sorry, who’s–” 

“Trevor _Herbert,_ ” Jon hisses, like that explains anything. “The tramp? The vampire hunter. You _told me_ he died.” 

What? Oh, that guy? He vaguely remembers Hannah telling him about that over Research drinks. “But I mean he… did. Didn’t he?” 

“Apparently not.” 

An old man not dying is a bad thing? Okay. He can work with this, maybe? “Oh! Sorry.” That was not the right answer, clearly. Jon looks pissed. 

_“Sorry?_ ” he spits. 

“I mean, I–I didn’t ever actually meet him. I just heard some of the other researchers mentioning it.” 

“What?” 

He can’t believe Jon is getting mad at him for a man _not_ dying in the breakroom six years ago. “Yeah, well, I could’ve sworn they said he died. I mean… maybe they just said he looks like death or something-” Jon scoffs. “I really thought they said he was dead.” 

“So that’s it. Just a _misunderstanding._ ” 

“Yes.” Wait, is this a mental break down? If so, it was a long time coming. Okay- just- de-escalate- “You seem to be taking this kind of personal–” 

“Because you keep _lying_ to me, Martin!” Jon explodes. 

“About what?!” 

“I-don’t- _know_. But-you- _are_.” Jon pulls out a bunch of yellow, crumbled papers, furiously flattening them out enough to read. 

“Wha- where did you get that? Have you been going through the _bin_?” 

“It was in the old document room, just next to where you used to sleep. Your handwriting.” Jon stabs at the offending line. “ _If the others find out I’ve been lying_ ” – lying about _what_ , Martin?” 

Fuck. 

Me. 

“Look, just forget about it, okay?” Martin knows he’s gone right past fight, flight, and freeze and straight into fawn, but he couldn’t give a shit. “Please?” 

“I can’t forget it. Everyone in this place has so many goddamn secrets and I can’t trust a word you say. Not about this and not about Trevor-” 

“Jon, just–” 

**_“Martin!”_** Jon beats the desks with his fists. His glasses are askew. His hair has come out of its plait. 

“Okay! Okay! Okay. Just… just…” Martin breathes. “Promise you won’t… fire me.” 

Jon scoffs again, like he’s being the weird one. “ _Fire_ you- fine.” 

Martin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath; focusing on the bridge of Jon’s glasses so he doesn’t have to look him in the eyes. “I lied on my CV.” he says quietly. 

“…what?” 

“I don’t have a master’s in parapsychology. I don’t even have a degree- I was 17, my mum, she had – she had some problems and I ended up dropping out of school trying to support us. I tried everything but nowhere was hiring, so I just kind of started to lie on my application, sending them out to just about anywhere. For some reason my lie about parapsychology got me an interview with Elias and – and then a job here. But most of my employment details are made up. I’m only 29.” 

Jon just looks at him for a second, and then he laughs, a short huff of relief. “Right. I–I… uh… I believe you.” 

“…why are you smiling?” 

Because he was smiling. Jon was smiling at him. “Yes, um, I just… I won’t mention it to Elias.” He nods decisively. “Just between us.” 

“So you don’t... mind?” 

“To be quite honest, Martin...” Jon shakes his head, smiling at the ground, “I’m really rather relieved.” 

They sit for a second. Martin thinks he hears a tape click. 

“So... can I go now?” 

“Hmm? Oh, yes.” He gestures to the door, and Martin... gets up. Thank god it’s Friday, he guesses. He goes home and googles how to stage an intervention. 

There’s a Wikihow. 

Hm. 

Unusually as of late, Tim is grinning like the cat who got the cream as he wanders past them in the breakroom. Martin puts a peppermint teabag in his favourite mug, the orange one that reads _This machine kills fascists_. He’s pretty sure he brought it from home. 

“What is it?” Sasha asks, perfectly plucked eyebrow raised. 

Tim clasps his hands together and closes his eyes angelically. “Couldn’t say,” Then he starts whistling, which is very annoying. 

“Tim.” 

Tim stops whistling, thankfully. “Oh, alright. But it doesn’t leave this room, ‘kay?” He looks around conspiratorially and sing-songs, “Guess who’s got a girlfriend?” 

“You?” 

Tim looks confused. “What? No. I’m still on the market though Sash, if you’re interested.” And then he purrs at her. Sasha snorts. The kettle finishes boiling, so he hears what Tim says next crystal clear. “It’s Jon, actually.” 

Sasha’s little china cup, the pretty dainty pink one with roses on it, shatters in his hand. Martin looks down at it distantly. He didn’t know he could do that. He’s like the Hulk. 

“Martin?” Tim looks over, eyes wide, and then it dawns on him. “Oh shit, Martin, I'm sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Martin mumbles, watching the blood well up on his palm. 

“No, you’re not. Fuck me, where’s the first aid?” Probably missing. A lot of things have been going missing lately. Sasha rematerialises with it, though. She pats his back sympathetically and wanders off. “Here, let me.” 

“It’s fine,” he says again, but Tim’s hand is already cradling his, tweezers in the other. He plucks out a shard gently, and the pain is almost a distraction from Jon has a girlfriend Jon dates Jon dates people who aren’t me. 

“I’m sorry, Martin.” 

“It’s alright, Tim. It isn’t anyone’s job to look after me.” 

“Oh, but it _is_ your job to look after us. Got it.” Tim smiles wryly at him. Martin feels himself flushing. “No, I'm sorry for bringing it up, it wasn’t cool.” 

And Martin, even though no matter what the answer is it will hurt him, will keep him up thinking about it, asks, “Do you know who she is?” 

“Last one, Marto- yeah. You know that policewoman who keeps coming round, DC... Hussain? Tall, dark, cool scarf?” 

Vaguely. He remembers her walking past once or twice, but he thought it was for the investigation. Cool, composed, well dressed. Was that Jon’s type? Professional? Slightly scary? Female? 

Maybe his type was just not Martin. That sounded right. 

Wait. Working hours? Were they- 

Oh. 

Martin tells himself to stop, after that. It was their business and they deserved their privacy, especially DC Hussain. Wait, was that racist? Islamophobic? He shouldn’t be thinking of people like that anyway, whether or not they had a hijab, it’s not like he doesn’t know how it feels for people to try and look at you under your clothes. And, God, he’s your boss, Martin, you’re _pathetic_ , this is why you _stay away_ \- 

“And you are done, Marty-boy!” Oh. Tim’s wrapped his hand. He must have been really deep in his own head if he didn’t know he was disinfecting it. 

“Thanks.” 

“Again, I am sorry, Martin. If it’s any consolation, though, he might start being less of a dick. Maybe even stop stalking me! Small pleasures, right?” Tim smiled, wide and clear. _Do you forgive me? Are you okay?_

He does. And he will be. And he might as well take advantage of Tim’s fresh cheer. 

“Right,” he agrees, and Tim relaxes. “Oh, are we still up for drinks?” 


	4. Chapter 4

Tim’s good mood lasts for all of two weeks, until Sasha walks in and says abruptly, “Jon followed me on my lunchbreak.” 

“Oh! Cool!” Tim gets up and cracks his knuckles. 

“What are you doing, Stoker?” Sasha half-laughs, looking nervous. 

Tim shrugs cheerily, jaw set, and makes his neck pop. “I’ve had enough of this.” 

“No- Tim, _stop!_ ” Tim is taking off his tie ominously, still looking dangerously pleasant. “Look, don’t- _beat him up?_ At least not yet? He’s gone over the line, _been_ over, but just- professionally? First? Please?” 

Tim has dropped the act and is glaring at him now, tired and angry with a sighing edge of pity. For a moment Martin despises him for it. _“Why_ do you _keep defending_ him, Martin?” Tim asks, starting to flush as he builds steam. “He’s a _stalker_. He’s got _pictures_ of my _house,_ probably Sasha’s, and maybe yours too, you don’t know! He literally accused you of lying about a murder, and you still think we sort it out with a, a chat and a biscuit! Maybe I’d understand if he was even _basically, basically_ decent to you, but he treats you like _shit_! God, just-” he growls, deep in the back of his throat- “ _let_ me _kick_ his _teeth_ in!” 

Martin steps out in front of him again, and for once is very, very glad he is the biggest in the office. “He still deserves a chance! Just let’s talk to him, stage an intervention, and I'll get out of your way.” He won’t, and they all know it, but in the silence Tim cools a little, pursing his lips into a cold straight line. 

“Fine,” he snaps, finally. _“One_ chance. One. Then I have free reign. Got it?” 

“Okay.” 

“And I'm _not_ kissing up to Elias for it. Don’t care if he’s the head of the Institute, he is a waste of a goddamn suit.” 

“Fine.” 

Sasha is silent during this exchange. As Tim slopes off, she squeezes his hand. She’s cold. _Cold hands, warm heart_ , his grandpa used to say, and then he’d press his palms to Martin’s red cheeks, and he would squeal with laughter. “I’ll help you talk to Elias. Tim’ll come round. He always does.” 

Sasha’s right, because Sasha’s always right. Tim calms down and apologises (if still a little cholerically), and they tell him The Great Intervention has been scheduled (!) for the end of the day. Elias took it surprisingly seriously- maybe because they’d complained before? Whatever. He still sets Martin’s teeth on edge with his all-knowing looks, but if allying himself with him is what it takes to help Jon, it’s worth it. It’s a weekend, so no matter what happens, they all get a break from each other to think. 

What they hadn’t considered was that Jon was a shameless workaholic, and by the time he emerges from his office willingly it’s a quarter to seven, and everyone’s annoyed but Elias, predictably. 

“Jon? If you don’t mind, we’d like to talk. Professionally, of course.” Before Elias even finishes, Jon is fumbling for his tape recorder. Does he take them home? Martin only ‘had’ one when he was living in storage. 

“You don’t mind if I record this, I trust?” Jon asks, having started recording before he’d asked. 

“Well, to be honest-” 

“–that’s kind of one of the things we wanted to talk about.” 

Alright, he might as well say it. “This is an intervention.” 

Jon scowls. “ _Excuse_ me?” 

“If you’d rather it was an official disciplinary hearing, Jon, we can arrange it.” 

Jon exhales and visibly schools his face, becoming more irritated than murderous. “Fine. Say your peace.” 

Sasha pipes up. “We care about you, Jon, and you’ve been rather erratic since the Prentiss incident.” 

“And we’d really like-” 

“To not have to fire you.” Elias says shortly. Dick. 

“To make sure that you’re doing _okay_.” Too late. Jon’s checking out. 

“Look, I understand I’ve been a bit… distant recently-” 

“You were watching my _house_.” 

“You followed me on my lunch break and searched my desk.” 

“You said was I lying about a _murder!_ ” 

Jon looks at least mildly embarrassed by this. 

“I- that is to say- I-” 

Sasha cuts to the chase, because that's what Sasha James does. “Do you think,” she asks calmly, “we killed Gertrude?” 

“No, it’s…” Jon wraps his bony arms around himself, looking away. “…maybe. Maybe you did, I don’t know-” 

“Jon, this is absurd. This goes far beyond an unhealthy work environment. I’ll admit it’s partly my fault for letting it get this bad, I should have started earlier.” 

“You still don’t believe us, do you?” Tim cuts in, coldly. 

“It’s not that I don’t believe you it’s just - I mean, you could have done it!” 

Tim glares. “Seriously. Listen to yourself.” 

Gentler, he says, “You’re not right.” 

Jon’s bloodshot eyes snap to him. “We’ve gone a long way beyond _right_ , Martin, there are _monsters_ out there, and I don’t know _who_ or _where_ they are or if _any_ of you- if- if you want me to trust you, then I’m _sorry_ , but I _need_ evidence.” 

Elias sighs, reaching out to pass him the files and CD- Jon immediately takes a step back. “Here.” 

Jon puts the tape on the desk and warily takes the folder, holding it out at arm's length gingerly. “And this is?” 

“A copy of all the CCTV from the week Gertrude disappeared. The police finally finished cleaning it up and examining it and returned a copy.” 

Jon laughs a little. “There _aren’t_ any cameras in the Archive.” 

“But there _are_ everywhere else. _Including_ all of the entrances into the Archive. And across all of the feeds, it provides a remarkably detailed account of all of our movements over that week. Even yours.” 

“And you think this gives everyone an alibi?” 

“The _police_ ,” Elias stresses,” certainly do, but feel free to check it yourself.” 

Jon examines the folder tersely, watching the light shine on the CD as if he could see what’s on it from there. “Thank you. I will.” 

“And let’s have no more of this paranoia.” 

Sasha smiles at him and turns off the tape. 

Jon is quashed, after that. He doesn’t exactly _apologise_ , which Martin knows is what annoys Tim. That he doesn’t say he’s sorry in words, that he barely acknowledges it. But Martin watches him shamefully closely, so he knows that in every bitten-back criticism, every time he refuses to follow their movements, that he is trying. And maybe it’s a low bar, but it’s progress. 

Jon seems significantly rattled after Detective Tonner leaves the office. Probably not for the reason Martin is- not just that she gives off a generally terrifying aura, but also that if she was a man, she would be exactly his usual type. A few weeks later Melanie King comes back- Sasha half-seriously pulls out some earmuffs after she shows her to Jon’s office, but she comes out after two minutes, not red in the face. A live statement. 

“Try to quit.” 

Tim is standing in the doorway. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Try to quit. You can’t.” 

“Well, obviously I can’t, Tim, you know that.” He’d told him, about living paycheck to paycheck, told him he had no qualifications, hadn’t even graduated. And Tim had understood. He and Danny had been in the foster system for half their childhoods, until he got that inheritance, he knew what it was like to have next to nothing. 

Now Tim looks over his shoulder dispassionately. “That might be a part of it, but that wasn’t what I meant. I meant that we physically can’t quit.” 

“Tim, what are you on about?” 

“Over the past year you’ve been held hostage in your flat by a crazy worm lady, held hostage at your own work, where you’ve been living for the past four months, by that same worm lady, and accused of murder. Like, multiple times. I know you don’t get paid enough to stay, so why do you? Jon’s a stalker and an arsehole, but I know he’d give you a reference, even just to get rid of you.” 

_Story of your life, right?_ Martin sighs and leans back in his chair. “I honestly don’t know, Tim. I- just can’t. Jon’s asked me the same. It’s like I’ve been tied here- Jon actually asked if I was a ghost.” He tries for a laugh, but Tim just slides further down the doorframe, supporting himself with his leg on the opposite side. “I think... I have to finish this, somehow. I have to stay, so I can figure it out.” 

Tim huffs. “That’s almost exactly what Sasha said. _Too damn curious._ But I'm not. I have precisely no interest in any of this anymore. But every time I try and type my resignation, my hands freeze up, or the computer does. I try and write it in pen, but there’s no ink, no lead in the pencil. I even tried calligraphy once, but my hands shook too much for it to be legible. The _one_ time I went to Elias directly I collapsed outside his door. Took an hour to feel my legs again, ‘til I decided to _come back tomorrow_. We’re trapped here, Martin. Say what you want, do what you want, whatever. But pretending it isn’t happening won’t protect you. We’re being eaten alive.” 

Tim straightens up. “Don’t care what you all do, but I’m going to warn everyone I can. Fuck.” He runs a scarred hand through his perfect hair. “I’m getting a drink.” 

Martin watches him leave. He looks back down at his work. It’s not like he has anywhere else to be. 

“You’re sure about this? He did tell us to go home…” 

“Yeah, and then he said, “Sorry for everything”. Something’s up.” 

“You don’t think he’s going to… y’know…” 

He doesn’t know, really. All he knows is that Jon had made up some bullshit story about being infectious, then sent them on their merry way while he does something suspicious. 

“I don’t know. But he’s going to do something, and it’s going to be bad.” Tim hefts his backpack over his shoulder. “And I don’t mean like ‘sneaking a cigarette’ bad. Like _properly_ bad.” 

“So, we need to help him?” 

Tim shrugs and grabs the recorder from the desk. “We need to stop him.” 

“And… we needed my tape recorder because…” 

“Because something tells me we’re going to need evidence by the end of today. I don’t want to wind up in court without something to back me up.” 

“Court?” 

“Yeah. Er, tribunal if we’re lucky, inquest if we’re not.” 

“You did use a new tape, didn’t you?” 

“Yeah, I took one off the pile.” 

A sick pit widens in his guts. “Was it blank or… Tim?” 

“It was blank.” 

Martin groans. “He’s never going to speak to us again.” 

Tim rolls his eyes and reaches for the doorknob. “Don’t get my hopes up.” 

Martin cranes himself around the frame. “Jon?” 

_“Aaaaaand_ he’s gone. Thought so.” 

“You don’t think he’s going to…” What? Hurt someone? Hurt _himself?_ Fuck, would they need an ambulance? 

“I don’t _know_ , Martin!” Tim huffs. “I think he’s going fully off the deep end, is what I think. If he hasn’t already.” He closes the door and paces off, the tips of his fingers on his forehead, thumbs on his chin like he’s praying. 

“Look, I know you don’t like him-” 

“Hah! Got that, did you?” 

“-But I’m not going to help you get him _fired.”_

“Martin!” Tim gestures at him sharply, waving his hands around as he speaks. “What do you think is happening here? This isn’t _office politics._ It’s not like he’s had _one-too-many_ at the Christmas party and started _ranting_ about the Greeks. Whatever is happening here, it’s _literally_ supernatural.” 

_Why did he have to say it?_ “Really?” he asks, even if they both know full well that something weird is going on. “Isn’t that a little… _y’know?”_

“No, it isn’t ‘a little... _y’know_ ’. There is something in this place, and it’s messing up our heads. It watches us all the time. It stops me quitting. I’m pretty sure it would stop Elias firing Jon even if he decided to try _actually_ running the place for once.” 

“You’re _sure_ you don’t just want to stay?” 

“I’m sure.” 

“But, like, deep down-” 

“No.” 

Martin looks away. “Oh.” 

They walk down the hallway in silence. 

“So you really think the Institute is, what, haunted?” 

“I used to. Now I think it’s worse.” 

“Worse how?” 

Tim doesn’t have to answer that, because the door to their left promptly shatters- something slamming into the opposite wall. 

_“JoOOOon!_ ” The thing calls, and Martin thinks _Sasha._

“Oh god! What the hell is that?!” 

“Oh no nonononono!” 

But sh-it- the _thing_ doesn’t seem interested in them, scuttling past. _“JoOOoon_!” It trills, and hooks one barbed claw, like a preying-mantis, around the gap in the trapdoor, and flings it open, scrabbling through. 

It is awfully quiet as the noise of hard shell against smooth rock fades into dead air. Apart from them, of course. 

“What...” Tim heaves, “the _hell_ was that?” 

“It…” Martin wheezes, “It looked… It kinda looked…” 

“Oh, don’t say it.” 

“It did, though, didn’t it?” 

Tim snaps, “That wasn’t Sasha.” 

“No. No, no, it wasn’t.” Not anymore. “You don’t… you don’t think -” 

“He told her to go home. Like us!” 

“Yeah.” 

Tim’s handsome face screws up even tighter. “And she did.” 

“Yeah.” 

They catch their breath. 

“It went into the tunnels.” 

“Nope.” Tim says immediately. “No. Not happening.” 

“We can’t just _leave_ him.” 

“ _Yeah_ , we _can_.” Tim crosses his arms and looks away. Whatever. Martin gets up. 

“I’m going.” He says firmly. And he walks over to the trapdoor, leaving Tim spluttering. 

“ _Martin!”_

Martin ignores him. He’ll follow. Tim always does. 

“I thought I heard something up ahead.” 

“I didn’t hear anything. Why, do you think it was the Sasha-thing?” 

“Will you _shut up_ about that? It wasn’t anything like her.” 

“No, I know, but I mean… like, if you _really_ stretched her out-” 

“We’re never going to find him down here.” Tim says coldly. 

“So go get some help.” 

Tim shifts. “Elias is probably still in his office.” 

“I thought you said he was a waste of a suit.” 

“Yeah, well, he’s better than nothing.” 

“If you want to go, I understand.” God knows he wouldn’t choose to be down here. 

“I… I’m not just going to leave you down here.” 

“You were all about quitting.” 

“Oh, for God’s sake, this isn’t about you.” 

“It never is.” 

“Alright, fine. Fine.” Tim throws his hands up. “What do you want? What’s your light at the end of these spooky damn tunnels? And don’t say ‘everyone happy forever’, because that’s not happening.” He looks over. “Well?” 

_Ughhhhhhhhh._ “I. Don’t. _Know._ I don’t know! I want to find out what’s going on. I want to save Jon. I want everyone to be fine and, you know what? If we were all happy that wouldn’t _actually be_ the end of the world!” 

Tim rolls his eyes. _“Fine._ ” 

“No, no it’s not _fine_. You’ve been going on and on and on about how alone _you_ feel because Jon’s not taking your feelings into account while he’s having his breakdown, but you’re just doing the same thing. We’ve all been going through this, Tim, but you’re the only one who’s been running away!” 

“Okay, okay.” Tim’s shoulder brushes against his. “Look, let’s keep going. There’s nobody here.” 

“Yes, there is.” 

Martin gasps and they both spin around, Tim holding out the torch like a sword. The... man(?) tilts his(?) head and smiles widely. He has far too many teeth for a mouth. He has far too much mouth for his head. 

“Stay back!” 

He smiles even wider, somehow, ponderingly. “No.” And suddenly he is leaning over them, prehensile curls draping over their shoulders, and Martin has the sensation of ants under his skin. They jump back, Tim arm curling protectively over him. The man pouts. 

“Who are you?” 

“I’m Michael. Did the Archivist not tell you about me?” 

“No?” He’s pretty sure he’d remember Jon talking about a... 

A... 

Michael. 

Michael just looks mildly pleased at his incredulity. “Good. Surprises are better.” 

“What are you doing down here?” 

“Probably watching the Archivist die.” He shrugs. “Maybe not. Either way is amusing. I… I think it’s called a _sport.”_

_“What?”_

“I think I might also kill you.” Michael cranes his neck thoughtfully, in a way that should have snapped it. “It would be easier than killing the Archivist. None of you are protected down here.” 

“No, no, now hang on-!” 

“You are going to try and help him,” he says matter-of-factly. “And I want to see what happens without you there.” 

_“Martin_ …” Tim hisses, but for once, Martin is not going to stop being pissed for the sake of another creepy arsehole today. “No, no, okay, because there’s _two_ of us and there’s one of you, okay-” he feels Tim grip his arm, nails digging in. He turns, seething. “He’s not killing anyone!” 

Tim pulls him close, gripping far too tight. “Martin, look at his _hands_!” 

Martin stops and takes it all in. 

“Oh.” 

_Michael_. 

“Go!” 

They run. They run and run and shove their way through a random door, and the Michael- _thing_ laughs at them in a way that goes through his ears and presses into his eyes. The door shuts. They heave against the wall. 

“Where the hell are we?” Tim breathes. His voice isn't right.

There is something wrong with the sound in here. 

The door has disappeared. 

“Fuck me.” 

Tim’s been saying that for a couple of hours now. Or at least Martin thinks it’s been hours. Before Prentiss, he’d never understood how his concept of time could just fluctuate, and here it’s worse, because there isn’t even a window to count the days, just smooth grey walls and corridors that don’t make sense. 

“Just... _fuck me_.” 

He really hopes they don’t see Michael again. God, what was he _thinking_ , picking a fight like that? He tries to remember what Sasha had so briefly outlined after her statement- curly hair, big hands- _like a sack of rocks_ , she’d said, all the bones in his fingers. Distorted. 

Sasha- 

No. Do not think about Sasha now. You need to get out of here, and thinking about her will only distract you. No. 

Fuck, was she alive? 

Before he can go down that charming path again, he hears a cry. 

“Sasha?” Tim yells, whipping around wildly, almost letting go- he holds on tight. “Sasha?” 

“Help me! For god’s sake, help me!” 

That is not Sasha’s voice. A woman’s, but older. To the left? They turn and see a trembling figure, small in the distance. Her voice echoes, pleading. “Please don’t go!” she calls, running towards them through the many doorways. “Please just-” 

And a doorway isn’t. 

“Hello?” Tim says stupidly, not moving. “Hello?” 

There is a very very distant wail, coming from the opposite direction. 

They move forward. 

They see the woman four more times. The third, she blinks into existence a hundred yards away. He steps forward, starting to pull Tim along, trying to meet her halfway. “Just a little more!” the woman cries, and she is close enough that he can see the naked hope on her face. And then there is just ugly floral wallpaper. He stops pulling. 

“We’re never getting out of here,” Tim says quietly. 

They move on. 


End file.
